Under the Table
by sofia.estrella
Summary: "I don't know how it always gets to this point, where you fuck up and I apologize, but here we are again." John, fueled by jealousy and wine, starts something. Months later, he moves back into 221B in order to decide what to do about Mary - only to end up even more conflicted. Follows HLV canon plot & post-HLV.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock nearly fell out of his chair upon feeling a bold, stocking foot creep up his leg under the dinner table.

"What's the matter, dear?" Mary asked, noticing his sharp intake of breath.

"Yeah, you alright, Sherlock?" John said, his face blank. Unreadable. The foot was almost at his knee now. Suddenly it changed direction and started traveling back down the length of his calf.

Sherlock shivered. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Fine. Sorry."

"You've gone pale - are you feeling alright?" Janine inquired, reaching up to touch the back of her hand to his forehead.

The foot left his leg altogether and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He looked up from his still-full plate to see John staring at him as he took a sip of wine. "Um. Yes. I'm - not hungry."

Janine frowned, put a hand on his arm. "You haven't eaten all day." Her head dropped to his shoulder and she squeezed his arm. "You have to eat."

Sherlock was about to respond, lie, say he'd eaten something earlier when she was out, but the foot returned - bare now - and it was quite determinedly slipping itself up inside of Sherlock's pant leg. He set his jaw, not about to make a scene, and looked as casually as possible to John, who sat across from him.

John apparently hadn't taken his eyes off him the entire time. Even as he leaned back in his chair and put an arm around Mary, his eyes stayed locked on Sherlock's. There was something of a challenge in his steady glare.

"Good thing he has someone to look after him," Mary said to Janine, teasing, comfortable under John's touch.

Janine agreed, eyes crinkling with laughter. "I swear he'd starve to death if I didn't remind him."

"Do you just not get hungry, Sherlock? Ever?" Mary asked.

"Huh? No. Not normally." He offered a glancing smile to Mary then returned to staring at a spot of sauce on the tablecloth - and trying his best to ignore the toes that tickled the underside of his knee.

"He's a bit absent-minded, I think," Janine said, affectionately pinching Sherlock's arm. Then she turned to John and asked, "Was it the same when you were with him?"

John, being forced to speak for the first time in a while, looked caught off guard. He sat up straighter (the warm foot slipped out of Sherlock's trousers) and switched his gaze from Sherlock to Janine. "Uh, yeah. Pretty much. "

"I can't blame him really for not having much of an appetite," Janine said. It was starting to drive Sherlock crazy the way she talked about him as if he weren't sitting right next to him. "That flat can turn anyone off of eating. You know once I found a bag of toenails in the fridge. Human toenails!"

Mary grimaced. "I wouldn't feel like eating anything after that."

"Exactly."

John rolled his eyes. "Toenails." He looked surprised at the attention he attracted by speaking up. "Well. Once I found a head in there. A severed head."

Janine and Mary wore matching, speechless faces of disgusted horror for several long seconds. "How could you stand living there, John, I'd've gone insane," Mary said lightly, not expecting a response.

"Well, it was - " John stopped, his eyes going round.

Sherlock suppressed a grin as he rubbed his foot more aggressively into John's shin. "It was… what, exactly, John?" he asked, leaning forward, face blank and innocent.

A smile flashed on John's face and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "It was never boring."

Sherlock experimentally trailed his foot down the length of John's leg and watched as John twisted in his seat, face reddening. "I don't know," Sherlock said, letting his foot drop to the ground next to John's. Inviting. "I got bored sometimes."

"And then you'd just shoot a wall," John said softly.

"I thought those were bullet holes!" Janine exclaimed, lightly whacking Sherlock's arm. "I knew it!"

"Mrs. Hudson never filled them in, then," John said, swirling his glass of wine and staring down into the blood-red whirlpool.

There was a long moment of silence, during which Sherlock found himself wondering why John hadn't touched his legs in a while. The silence only fueled his racing mind. Maybe Sherlock had been wrong to reciprocate. Maybe he'd misconstrued John's original intentions. Projected his own hopes and emotions into it. John was probably just making a joke. Sherlock moved his feet away from John's in a hurry, tucking them underneath his own chair.

He suddenly felt panicky; his face burned. Underneath his intense desire to disappear, he became vaguely aware of Mary saying his name. "What?" he said dumbly, looking up.

"I'm just going to take your plate, dear. You're finished, right?"

Sherlock nodded, handing her his plate. Mary and Janine stood up, but John stayed seated.

"Do you want help cleaning up?" Sherlock asked hopefully, beginning to get up.

"No, we're fine, thanks. Just sit tight," Janine said, leaving for the kitchen with Mary.

Sherlock settled back down into his seat. Cleared his throat. Took a long sip of his wine. He could feel John's eyes on him.

"Sherlock," John said, sighing. It was a weighty sigh. Only unpleasant things follow weighty sighs.

"I should go." Sherlock looked up to meet John's eyes.

John blinked. Shrugged with his hands. He nodded toward the door. "Then go."

Sherlock broke their eye contact and stood up. "I'm gonna go."

"Okay."

Sherlock nodded and turned, walked out of Janine's dining room. He pulled on his coat and his shoes and opened the door as quietly as he could. When he began to ease it shut, something stopped it. He glanced down to see a bare foot, stuck in the doorframe. Sherlock stepped back, allowing John to walk out onto the steps outside.

"John," Sherlock said, not sure what he planned on saying next.

But he didn't get a chance to say much else as John grabbed the lapel of his coat and pushed him up against the door, managing to close it the rest of the way. They stood like that, breathing hard, John clutching Sherlock's lapel, Sherlock clutching John's wrists. John bent his head down, his nose just about touching Sherlock's collar bone (he hadn't had the time to put his scarf on yet). Sherlock bent his head down as well, his nose just about buried in John's hair.

Sherlock began loosening his grip around John's wrists, considering where he should move them next. (So many promising candidates: shoulders, waist, small of his back, back of his neck, sides of his face…) Before he could choose, though, John exhaled with finality and stepped away from Sherlock. His wrists slipped from Sherlock's hands as John rubbed at his nose and eyes. He looked exhausted. He didn't meet Sherlock's eyes again, just opened the door, slipped back inside and shut it behind him.

Sherlock turned slowly, raised a hand, trembling fingers nearly touching the doorknob - he stopped himself. Pulled on his scarf, cinched it in tight. He descended the flight of stairs, his coat billowing behind him.

* * *

**A/N: **

**Um. That ended up being far more angst-ridden that I originally intended. Probably due to the fact that I listened to the S3 soundtrack while writing. Plus, _I_ wrote this, which also factors into the angstiness because I am 97% angst at this point in my life. But to be real, I love misunderstandings between characters like this argh. I'm a masochist. **

**I'm not planning on continuing this but… sexual tension is there to be resolved. So I could be convinced is what I'm saying.**

**(And yes I should be working on my wips instead of writing new stuff but shhh.)**


	2. Chapter 2

Things were tense for a while, unspoken. There were times when Sherlock would brush a piece of lint from John's coat and he'd feel him flinch away from his fingers. So he resolved that the less touching the better. John rarely met his eyes. Sherlock followed his lead and would stare at his eyebrows or nose when speaking to him, but never directly into his eyes. It made his chest constrict a bit when he did.

One morning, Sherlock, using his microscope in the kitchen, heard the doorbell ringing downstairs. He sighed through his nose. Adjusted the light and the focus knobs. The doorbell rung again, and a few more times in quick succession.

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered to his bacteria colony.

Then he heard his phone vibrate somewhere, buried under books and dirty plates and Petri dishes. He fumbled through the mess, found it after a moment. A text: _Answer your bloody door. JW_.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, ran his thumb over the letters on the screen. Then he jumped up and bounded down the hall and down the stairs, his robe flying behind him. He hurled the door open.

John looked up from his phone. Met Sherlock's wild eyes and quickly looked away. He tapped the suitcase sitting on the pavement next to him.

"Hi. Sherlock. Do you think I could… move back in for a bit?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." Sherlock stepped aside and held the door as John dragged his suitcase in.

John clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Thanks, mate."

Sherlock closed the door, lingered at the bottom of the stairs as John hauled his suitcase up. He listened as John ascended the second flight. The floorboards creaked above him. When he heard John's feet pattering down the stairs again, Sherlock started up and they met in the middle. John nodded at him, went to sit in his chair - in its place again.

Sherlock slowly went to sit in his chair, facing John. He still felt pangs of pain in his chest whenever he sat down or stood up. John wouldn't have seen the grimace on his face though - he was staring down at something he held with the tips of his fingers.

The flash drive. A.G.R.A. He turned it over and over in his hands.

"Have you looked at it yet?" Sherlock asked.

"No." John enclosed the thing in his fist. Raised his eyes to look at Sherlock. Sherlock carefully looked away, focused on his chin. "Do you think I should?" John asked, nearly at a whisper.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair, snagging his fingers on his curls. "It doesn't really concern me - "

John laughed harshly. "Oh, that's - " He breathed in deeply, but the slight tremble was not lost on Sherlock. "I'm just asking for your advice. Sherlock. Just - asking."

"Well. I think you should." Sherlock shrugged. "That's my advice." He sprung out of his chair. Returned to the microscope.

John laughed a bit, an odd laugh. Unnerving. Sherlock watched the back of his head warily as he fiddled with the knobs.

"You… you want me to… of course." John stood up and walked straight up the stairs.

Sherlock sat staring after him for eighteen minutes after he'd disappeared from sight.

* * *

The flash drive stayed on the table for weeks. John didn't touch it. Didn't look at it. Sherlock looked at it quite a lot, but didn't touch it either. They didn't mention it again. John continued going into work at the clinic - where Sherlock knew he must see Mary. He must. He wondered if John looked her in the eyes when he spoke to her.

Sherlock was supposed to be resting. Recovering. He was sick of it. But he didn't want to go on any cases anyway. John never asked him what he did all day when he came home, so Sherlock never had to tell him that he had sat at the table with his laptop, staring at the flash drive, for an hour this day or two and a half that day.

Sometimes John told him to get a few things from the shop during the day. But John always came home with the things he asked for. Apparently didn't expect Sherlock to do it. Well - he was right. Sherlock never remembered until he heard John unlocking the door in the evening. His heart would race for a second, but then John would come in with the milk or take-away or whatever it was.

Tonight it was Chinese. John put the paper boxes on the coffee table in front of the couch, where Sherlock been sitting for… longer than he could remember, actually. Sherlock glanced at the food over the top of his book, considering it for a moment. Then he returned to reading.

His eyes got stuck on the word "oxidation" when John said down next to him. Sherlock read the word over six times as John opened a box of lo mein.

"Are you gonna eat?" John asked, stabbing his chopsticks into a piece of pork.

"Um. No. Not hungry."

"Alright." John finished eating, put the leftovers in the fridge and returned to the couch. He slid down and propped his feet up on the coffee table, practically horizontal. He rested a book on his chest and read, lazily turning the pages.

After some time, John stopped turning the pages altogether. Sherlock noticed (obviously) - thought John was dozing off. But he also noticed John's left hand falling away from the book onto the couch. Occupying the small space between the two of them. His fingers stretched and his wrist twisted.

Sherlock had stopped turning his pages as well.

"Let's watch a movie," John said suddenly.

"I'm reading," Sherlock muttered.

But the TV was on and the lights were out and John was back on the couch. His left hand was back where it had been, palm up, curling fingers.

Sherlock kept the book in his hands, straining his eyes to make out the words.

"Put the book away and watch the movie," John said.

"I'm _reading_."

"You can't even see. Put the book away."

Sherlock ended up watching the movie over the top of the book, making sure to turn the page every few minutes. He had no idea what movie it was, but he suspected John didn't know either, since he seemed to be paying even less attention than Sherlock.

After about fifteen minutes, Sherlock felt fingers brush against his thigh through his pajamas. At first he wrote it off as an accidental touch, but the fingers were persistent. They trailed up the side of his leg, barely applying any pressure. Sherlock swallowed hard, his muscles tensing.

The hem of his tee-shirt was but a small barrier and soon enough there were two cold fingertips making timid contact with his side. Sherlock stole a glance at John, not daring to move his head, to see John watching the TV stoically. His right hand was casually propping up his chin. But his left hand…

A thumb traced a section of Sherlock's spine then hooked around the elastic hem of his pajama pants. Sherlock relented, closing the book, and lowering it to his lap. He turned his head and looked John dead in the eyes for the first time in weeks. The flickering light from the TV danced across his heavy eyelids and loose mouth.

Sherlock haltingly moved his own left hand, as if John might not notice if he did it slowly enough. He stopped when it hovered over John's nose and mouth and cheek, collecting his warm breath. After ninety seconds (Sherlock counted) John nestled his face into Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock ran his thumb through John's eyebrow, against the grain, ruffling the tiny hairs. He pressed his fingers into the hinge of his jaw, and felt John's hand flatten against the small of his back.

John sat up straighter, his eyes shutting as he turned his face into Sherlock's hand. He pressed his mouth against Sherlock's knuckles and fingers, dry lips nudging into his palm.

Curious fingers, no longer cold, traveled around to Sherlock's stomach and crawled up his chest, settling on the edge of the bandage.

"Have you looked at it yet?" Sherlock asked quietly, watching as John pulled his face from Sherlock's hand.

"Hmm…?" The realization dawned after a moment. The bold left hand slipped out of Sherlock's shirt as John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Sherlock's hand was left dangling in the air by John's ear. "The flash drive," Sherlock clarified.

"Yeah, I haven't. Haven't looked at it." John dropped his head down, pursed his lips.

Sherlock laid his hand on John's back, rubbed tiny circles between his shoulder blades. "I just thought…" Sherlock said. "I don't know. I thought you might have."

"Yeah, well. I haven't." John sighed as he stood up, letting Sherlock's hand fall away from him.

"Are you… going to…?"

John lets out a single, breathy laugh and starts up the stairs to his room. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

**A/N: I really milked the food=sex metaphor here… Not even subtle.**

**(And I just really like the idea of John feeling up Sherlock okay. Which is basically the entire plot of this tbh.)**

**Yeah so clearly I'm continuing this - well, bumbling along without much of a plan. I'm wondering what's in store next as much as you are. As you might have noticed, I've been following HLV pretty closely, so... hm. Yeah. That might continue. Might not. I don't know. What do you want to see? I live to serve.**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was out of morphine. He wouldn't be able to get any more - damn Mycroft. He supposed he should have used his supply more sparingly but - no matter. It was gone. He was building up quite the tolerance as it was.

But the dull, unyielding ache made it harder to get out of bed in the morning. Not to mention any movement at all (breathing included) brought a sharp, hot pain to his chest. So he lay in bed, taking shallow breaths. He heard John in the bathroom, saw his silhouette through the frosted glass door. John left the bathroom, but his footsteps paused, hesitated. Then after a moment he approached Sherlock's door and tapped on the wood.

"Yeah?" Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, which was far from effortless, but John didn't open the door.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"It's almost ten o'clock."

"I'm getting up."

"Okay."

Sherlock listened as John walked to the kitchen. It was Sunday - he didn't have work. Sherlock set his jaw and got out of bed. He lumbered into the bathroom, and collapsed onto the edge of the bath, clutching his side. He would have to change his bandage and he should wash his hair. None of the pain medicine in the house was strong enough to be worth taking.

So he ground his teeth together and got to work. It was hard enough just rummaging through the drawers for what he needed. He peeled off the old bandage with a grunt - there was less blood on it than there had been the day before.

As Sherlock laboriously cleaned the wound and stuck on a fresh bandage, he could have sworn he heard John breathing just outside the bathroom door. If he was, he didn't come in, and he was gone when Sherlock finally opened the door.

* * *

Sherlock stayed on the couch most of that day, TV on, volume low. His eyes tracked John as he typed on his computer, or searched the cluttered flat for something - "Sherlock, have you seen my... never mind." - or made himself a cup of tea, or read yesterday's paper.

Sherlock thought maybe they could watch another movie. But John never came and sat next to him.

He did, however, ask Sherlock if he wanted dinner. Sherlock said no. Ten minutes later, John put a plate of spaghetti on the coffee table. Sherlock ignored it for a minute, then reached for it, watching John in the room over. John didn't notice as Sherlock ate a few bites and then put the plate back on the table.

In the bathroom later that night, Sherlock decided to try to wrap his upper torso in gauze, thinking that the pressure would alleviate some of the pain. He sat on the bathroom counter, rotating his shoulders to wind the gauze around his body, and clenching his teeth against the pain.

There was a moment when he thought he heard John's breath at the door. And then there was a timid knock.

"Need some help, Sherlock?" His voice was strained, high-pitched.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Please."

John entered the bathroom, timidly, left the door slightly ajar behind him. His eyes fell on Sherlock who looked back at him, eyes wide.

The doctor began rummaging through the medicine cabinet, shaking pill bottles until he found one that wasn't empty, throwing the empty ones away as he went. Finally he pressed three chalky-red pills into Sherlock's palm and held a glass of water out to him.

"John… Ibuprofen? It's not going to - "

"Yeah, I know it's not going to do anything for you, but just… take it. I'll feel better."

Sherlock's retort was on the tip of his tongue - _I thought this was about making _me_ feel better_ - but he stopped himself. Took the water from John. Swallowed the pills.

"Do you think you could get me some morphine?" Sherlock asked quietly, as John began working at the gauze wrap.

He let out a sharp little laugh. "Um. No. I don't think I can. Sorry."

"Did Mycroft - ?"

"No. Okay, I can. I mean, I _could_. But I'm not going to. You understand, right?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes fixed on John's hands as they smoothed the gauze out across his chest. He focused on not wincing in response to John's fingers probing his bruised skin. He didn't want him to stop.

John stood in front of the counter, head bent in concentration. He probably didn't notice that he was standing between Sherlock's knees. He probably didn't notice that Sherlock was starting to press his knees against John's hips.

John kept wrapping the gauze. The pressure it applied on his wounded chest felt better than Sherlock could have hoped. He slowly bent his own head forward, until it rested on John's shoulder. John only reacted by pausing for a moment, but then he continued, trying to keep his shoulder still as he worked.

Sherlock savored the sensation of John's fingers brushing against his back, and of his arms rubbing against his own. John moved in a little closer, now quite undeniably standing between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock tilted his head to nestle into the crook of John's neck, this time earning a much longer pause than the last. When he kissed John's neck, he got him to stop altogether. Sherlock lifted up his head, but his eyes stayed down - until John cupped a hand around his face.

Their eyes met. John nodded - a question. Sherlock nodded - an answer. John took another half-step closer, brought up his other hand to hook around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stayed still as John moved in closer still. But he paused when their lips were nearly touching. Sherlock could feel the warmth of John's breath and after a second or two he gave in, and pressed his lips to John's.

John immediately exhaled through his nose and his shoulders loosened as he ran his hands down Sherlock's bare arms. Sherlock leaned into the kiss, hooking one of his legs around John. John ran his hands over Sherlock's chest and back and shoulders and legs, apparently unable to decide where he most wanted to touch him. Sherlock had limited mobility in his arms, and the deep breaths he drew in between kisses were painful, but he was satisfied to keep his hands on John's waist, gripping more tightly with every passing second. As if trying to squeeze out the unsettled feeling that was rising in his stomach.

Sherlock was a bit relieved when John pulled away to kiss his neck and used the opportunity to take in a few ragged breaths. His whole body was pounding with his pulse - the bullet wound throbbing most of all.

"Sherlock," John whispered against his jaw. His voice was reluctant but his hands were knotted in the curls at the back of Sherlock's head.

"John," Sherlock answered, twisting his neck to plant dry kisses on John's face. Not able to shake the constant nagging sensation, he murmured, "I want you to look at the flash drive. Let's look at it together." Sherlock turned his head to kiss John's mouth, but the doctor was unresponsive. He pulled away after a moment, his hands slipping down to grip Sherlock's shoulders firmly.

"Can you just say what you really mean for once?" John asked, shaking his head. "Christ, Sherlock…"

"I… I want you to look at the - "

"You want me to stop loving Mary," John snapped.

"I want you to love me."

There was something vulnerable in the unflinching way Sherlock held John's eyes - something that made them both want to look away. John was the one who finally relented.

"You know it's not that easy… We're going to have a baby." John stood up, rubbed his eyes.

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock stood up too, wincing at the pain that shot through his chest.

John's expression softened. "Sit down, I'll finish wrapping you." He guided Sherlock back down onto the counter and carefully pulled the gauze tight around Sherlock's torso, fingertips light on his skin.

"Then what?" Sherlock whispered.

Once John was finished securing the gauze, he took Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him, slowly, openly.

"I do love you," he whispered. He kissed his forehead and left the bathroom.

* * *

**A/N: Vulnerable-Sherlock is my weakness. And John's as well, I imagine. So… less angst I think? This is probably as angst-free as my writing can ever be. This chapter is supposed to be a little respite before the next one. It's gonna be… kinda rough. My apologies in advance.**

**In other news, I'm starting work on a Femlock/Unilock thing and I'm very excited about it. I know I should be working on this more, but this is getting to be a hot mess and the Femlock thing is going well. So be on the look-out for that in the future. It will be long, it will have Johnlock (except… lesbian) and it will have a mystery of some sort.**


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs. Hudson pattered across the downstairs hallway, opened the door. "Oh, Mary. John's not here right now - "

Sherlock strained his ears, but couldn't make out Mary's response, just the faint sound of her murmuring voice. Why would Mary be here? Why hadn't she left yet? Sherlock stopped typing, fingers poised above the keys.

"He's upstairs. Should I call him down?"

Sherlock tightened his jaw, flipped down his laptop screen. After a moment's hesitation, listening to Mary ascending the stairs, coming toward him, he brushed some papers over the flash drive. It had laid there for months, untouched, unmentioned. But always a very particular presence in the room.

He looked up at the sound of a tap at his door. Mary stood there, smiled grimly at him. She supported her pregnant belly with one hand. Her face was rather gray.

"Hi, Sherlock."

Sherlock decided that the best course of action was to play dumb. Deaf and dumb. "John's not here."

"I know, I… wanted to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Can I have a seat?" she asked, making toward John's chair.

Sherlock grimaced slightly. "Yes, fine. Tea?" He jumped up, cutting in front of her on his way to the kitchen.

"Um, no thanks." She lowered herself into the chair, sinking down into it. Her breaths slowed and shallowed as she sat.

Sherlock continued making tea anyway. Mary stayed faced away from him, smoothing her shirt out around her round torso.

"How's John doing?"

"You're his wife."

"You live with him."

Sherlock put a kettle on, opened the cupboard, started looking for a mug.

Mary twisted her head around, looked at Sherlock's back, his swishing robes, for a moment and settled back in, facing forward. "How are you doing? Recovering?"

"From being shot, you mean." He took a mug down, turned around to look at the back of Mary's head. She didn't react. "I'm not trusted to take any pain medication anymore, but… John's been a good doctor to me." He hoped that was as suggestive to her as he intended it to be. He hoped she pictured John pressing his hands against Sherlock's chest. Moments of intimacy. John seeing firsthand what Mary had done. Hating her. Loving him.

Mary turned around suddenly, her tear-filled eyes meeting Sherlock's. "Has he… looked at the flash drive?"

Sherlock went back and forth in his head between "yes" and "no" about a hundred times in one second. "No," he finally said. "He hasn't."

"Have you?" she asked, tilting her head.

"No," he whispered. The kettle whistled. He turned back around, and so did she. She didn't say anything as he brewed and poured his tea. He went to sit across from her, in his own chair, seeing no other option.

She kept her eyes on his, and both hands on her stomach, on her baby, and said, "Sherlock, please. I want my husband back."

His eyes darted away. He took a sip of tea. "I haven't taken him."

She laughed a bit, sadly. "I know."

"I think you should talk to John about this," Sherlock said. "There's nothing I can do about it."

Mary looked at him for a long time, nodding her head slowly. Then she hauled herself out of John's chair - Sherlock wondered if he should offer to help - and thanked him. She left, closed the door on her way out.

* * *

"I'm home," John announced, slipping his coat off his shoulders. After hanging it, he turned around and nearly bumped into Sherlock, who stood half an arm's length away, utterly silent. John didn't move, penned in between his flatmate and the wall. John was considering what to say and how to say it when Sherlock abruptly closed the short distance between them, leading with his hips. John was pinned against the wall now, mind racing and blank all at the same time, while Sherlock kissed him.

It wasn't particularly elegant. Sherlock clearly hadn't learned the finer points of using his tongue yet. And he was starting to rut against John's leg, letting out needy little gasps each time. The complete imbalance of technique and passion made John feel about seventeen years old.

"Sherlock," he mumbled into the other man's mouth. "What…?"

John was silenced, but not by a kiss. Sherlock had dropped to his knees and began fumbling at John's belt buckle with trembling hands.

"Oh - Sh-Sherlock. Wait." John grabbed at his wrists, but he was swatted away. "What's got into you-?"

It was then that he got a good look at Sherlock's eyes - reddened, dilated beyond sexual arousal. He noticed Sherlock's rolled-up sleeve (only one arm, left arm) and the bruised crook of his elbow. _You see but you do not observe_.

John forcefully took Sherlock's hands and stepped to the side. (Having your back pressed against a wall is hardly beneficial to rational thought.) Sherlock, still on his knees, whined and twisted his arms.

"Sherlock, stop. You're high, aren't you?"

The detective stopped struggling for a moment, then pulled his hands free in one swift movement. He stood up, retreated from John, and rolled up his sleeve. Rubbed at a bloodshot eye.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shook his head and shoved past Sherlock, still silent and rooted to the spot. "Where are they?" John called from inside the flat. "Your bedroom?"

Sherlock caught up to John and stood in the door to his bedroom, watching as the doctor emptied out draws and tore sheets off the bed. Sherlock was shoved aside once more as John left the bedroom. His head knocked against the door frame. He ran after John into the living room.

John ripped cushions off the couch and overturned the coffee table.

"John," Sherlock pleaded. "You're making a mess."

The doctor laughed as he stalked over toward the table. Sherlock scrambled in front of him, grabbing his arms.

"John, stop."

"I must be getting warmer then," he sneered, trying to push past. "What don't you want me to see? Your stash? You're pathetic." He made another move to get by, but Sherlock blocked him.

John raised his eyebrows and smiled, amused and infuriated. Dangerous.

Sherlock made one last attempt - he got a grip on John's arm and tried to twist it back, but the soldier wasn't so easily defeated, turning his arm the opposite way with more strength, and kicking Sherlock's legs out from under him. He was thrown to the floor. He sat there, helpless, waiting for John's reaction.

John, satisfied that Sherlock had surrendered, surveyed the cluttered table. There were certainly drugs: a syringe, a pouch of some pale yellow-white powder, a tourniquet, a silver spoon, a lighter. All the fixings. John hurriedly collected them, but soon noticed what they lay beside.

Sherlock's laptop was open - the screen dark now, but John didn't need to see the screen to realize. His upper spine tingled. He yanked the flash drive out of the USB port and pocketed it. Then he turned to the guilty party, who still sat on the floor at his feet.

Sherlock flinched as soon as John took a step forward. John grabbed a handful of his shirt and hauled him to the bathroom, threw him in the shower, and turned on the cold water. John dumped the bag of whatever it was - opium, cocaine, heroin, he didn't know, didn't care - in the toilet and flushed.

"You think you can just shoot up and have a little peek, do you?" he yelled, holding up the flash drive. "Is this what you do all day when I'm at work? This is how you entertain yourself? You get fucking smashed and look at my - who the fuck do you think you are? You think this was your choice to make? You get high so you don't have to take responsibility for it? You get high so you can jump me as soon as I walk in the door - did you really think that was gonna work? You'd blow me and fix everything? Is that what you thought?"

Sherlock stood under the showerhead in his waterlogged clothes, shivering. "You started this," he said through chattering teeth.

John let out an incredulous breath. "Yeah. Yeah you're right, it's my fault like always," he shouted, waving his arms. "I don't know why _I_ thought this was gonna work. I should have known better. But I thought, oh, he's changed. But you never change, do you?"

Sherlock blinked the water from his eyes. He could cry right now and John wouldn't know. Eyes already red. Water already streaming down his face.

"So I'm sorry," John said. "I don't know how it always gets to this point, where you fuck up and I apologize, but here we are again. I'm sorry for moving back in and for hoping - for putting you in that position. Okay?"

"No," Sherlock said. "You don't get to do this and just say sorry."

"Do what, exactly?"

"Tell me you love me. And then say it was all a mistake."

They stared at each other, level, unyielding. The water pelted against Sherlock's back and the tile floor. He wrapped his arms around himself, his whole body shaking.

John sighed. "Jesus, get out of the shower. Your lips are blue."

Sherlock turned off the water and grabbed a dry towel, wrapping it around his shoulders. His hair was thick and dripping. His eyelashes were heavy with water.

"It's empty," Sherlock whispered.

"Sorry?"

"The flash drive. There's nothing on it."

John hardly reacted. Just sat on the counter, quiet. "What am I gonna do, Sherlock?"

"I don't know."

* * *

**A/N: I feel like John has a license to do anything he wants to Sherlock post-Reichenbach, so he isn't supposed to come off as overly mean. I think his reactions are appropriate, but I'm the one inside his head. Then again, I'm not sure what's going on with the POV in this fic. It's such a mess, I'm so sorry haha. This is why you don't write a one-shot and then just aimlessly continue it… Learn from my mistakes.**

**So the AGRA box is empty, how surprising. This might have a plot now? I don't know! Ugh. I might just rework the earlier chapters and make this into an actual fic but then again I'm lazy so probs not.**


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